High Priestess Emral Lanear stood beside Lord Anomander, awaiting the appearance of the Azathanai and her escort. Syntara had entered the inner chamber and now presumably communed with Mother Dark, although in truth Emral knew that such communion was notoriously frustrating. Perhaps an idealistic, romantic woman well and truly belonged at the heart of something as ephemeral as faith and worship. Perhaps indeed no virtue of pragmatism was possible in matters of the soul, and might even prove anathema to the very notion of the sacred.

Did not all prophets speak in riddles? Did not diviners slip like eels through an array of futures? Scriptures fraught with hard pronouncements might well be desired, but these were the ones most readily ignored, she suspected – although in truth she knew little of the religions of other peoples. One did not need to be a scholar to observe, however, that faiths were born of stone, water, earth, sun and wind, and should these forces prove harsh and inimical, so too the faith. Hard lives begat hard laws, not just in the necessities of living, but also in those of believing. She well understood that particular dialogue.

A river in seasonal flood, a forest to hold back the harshest winds, the plenitude of fish, crops and game: these did not describe a harsh world, a scrabble to live. The Tiste had traditionally recoiled from fast rules, as if such rules offended their nature. It was only war that changed this, and now, when Emral took a moment away from her mirror – when she looked upon the many now commanding positions of influence in the Citadel – she saw sharp edges in place of soft lines, and in a host of eyes there was stone instead of water.

Many were the natural forces to assail a people and give them shape; in her mind, she must now count among them war itself, no different from sun and wind.

‘They are coming,’ said Anomander. ‘Will you give greeting first?’

‘I see myself as more of a final escort into the presence of Mother Dark, Lord.’

‘Very well,’ he replied.

Motion at the far end of the corridor, and then a sudden bloom of light.

Ice cracked where it sheathed the stone walls, slid down in sheets. The glow surrounded the Azathanai, its golden hue deepening at its edges, reminding Emral of burning leaves. The power she unveiled as she drew closer made the walls groan and shift. Dust drifted down.

Emral found that she was trembling. It is a wonder that the Azathanai are not worshipped as gods.

Behind the approaching woman came Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem. Neither man bore an air of confidence; instead, they looked beleaguered, exhausted by uncertainty.

With the light came warmth, cutting through the chilled air, devouring it. The Azathanai woman, slight of frame, attractive in a delicate way, her fair hair drifting in the swirling draughts, halted three strides from them. Her gaze fixing upon Anomander, she said, ‘Night will claim your skin. Before your eyes, darkness will be revealed. But I will make visible the defiance within you, as a gift.’